


Crack it Open

by wesleysgirl



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the second Fic Challenge ("Behind Blue Eyes" lyrical<br/>inspiration) at <a href="http://www.no-hero.org/spikenwes/main.html">Peaches 
Won't Be Happy</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Crack it Open

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the second Fic Challenge ("Behind Blue Eyes" lyrical  
> inspiration) at [Peaches Won't Be Happy](http://www.no-hero.org/spikenwes/main.html).

  
  
  
The soft sound of feet on rough cement as someone crosses the roof of  
his building, but Wesley doesn't care.  
  
The scrape and settle as that someone gets up onto the ledge beside  
him and sits, looking out across the city. There've been nights when  
the lights and sounds seemed nearly alive, but tonight isn't one of  
those.  
  
Tonight, L.A. feels far away.  
  
"Nice night," Spike says finally.  
  
Wesley doesn't even turn his head to look at him. "Go away."  
  
Spike just sits there. After another minute or so, he lights up a cigarette.  
  
Wes tells himself that he's not going to say another word. It'll just  
encourage Spike, and that's the last thing Wes needs. Another stupid  
wanker of a vampire to hang around, making him... He shakes his head.  
Some thoughts don't deserve to be completed. Still, "Why do you do that?"  
  
"What?" Spike asks. He sounds disgustingly chipper.  
  
"Smoke."  
  
"S'a habit," Spike says with a small shrug that causes his shoulder  
to brush against Wesley's. It brings to mind other touches, both accidental  
and deliberate. Other nights like this one, when Spike had suddenly  
shown up without warning. "Besides, gives me something to do with my  
hands."  
  
This sounds like Wes is being baited, and he refuses to play. He hasn't  
the energy, and he doesn't care enough. He'll never care that much again.  
His throat burns inside and out and he chokes the memories down with  
another swallow from the bottle that's been sitting at his side for  
the past... several hours. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting  
there. Doesn't know what time it is.  
  
Doesn't care.  
  
"Here, give me some of that," Spike says, and takes the bottle from  
his hand. Takes a long swig that Wesley only sees in his peripheral  
vision because he is *not* looking at Spike. "You're not drunk," Spike  
tells him.  
  
"No." He might like to be, but he's not. He hasn't gone to enough effort  
to get there.  
  
Another pause.  
  
"Something I can do?" Spike's offer, when it finally comes, is hesitant,  
but sounds genuine.  
  
"No."  
  
They sit there for a while longer. The night's cold -- it's not often  
this cold in L.A.. Wesley thinks he's been sitting here too long --  
when he came up it was just to watch the sun set, and the roof of the  
building had still been radiating heat. Now it's just cold, and his  
t-shirt is too thin, and his hand is starting to ache.  
  
"Whatcha got there?" Spike asks, nudging Wes' knee with his own and  
nodding at Wesley's clenched fist.  
  
Wesley doesn't answer, and after a moment Spike sets the whisky bottle  
down behind himself and reaches out for Wes' hand. Wesley watches as  
Spike pries his fist open -- he isn't resisting, and in fact he thinks  
that he might not have been able to open his hand up on his own.  
  
They both look down at the key resting on his palm. "To the... office,"  
Wesley says.  
  
Spike snorts. "Didn't think he ever locked the place."  
  
"Oh, he doesn't." Wesley's own voice sounds quiet and rough. "It's the  
principle of the thing." And before he can think about it any further,  
he tilts his hand and lets the key slide off, watches it disappear into  
the dark air below. Throwing it would be overkill. This way it just...  
slips away.  
  
"That's it then?" Spike asks. "Just like that?"  
  
"Just like that," Wesley agrees, detached. God knows it wasn't that  
simple -- not just like that. It had already been over; this was just  
the moment in which he officially acknowledged it. The moment in which  
it had actually ended hadn't been so easily defined. Had it been when  
Angel had tried to kill him? When he'd taken that step through the threshold  
with Connor in his arms? Or when Justine had slit his throat?  
  
Maybe it had been when he'd written down the translation.  
  
Wesley shivers. There's an indentation in his skin that's shaped a bit  
like the key. He closes his fist again, hoping that the pressure of  
his grip will erase it.  
  
"You're cold," Spike says.  
  
"It doesn't matter." Wesley has been cold for a long time.  
  
But Spike is already shrugging out of his coat and draping it over Wesley's  
shoulders. The leather isn't warm because Spike's not, but it smells  
of smoke and decay. It's comforting, and so is the arm that Spike wraps  
around his waist.  
  
They don't say anything for a time.  
  
"I know what happened." Spike leans closer and rests his chin on Wesley's  
shoulder.  
  
"I thought as much." Wesley's not sure how Spike found out, but is grateful  
that he won't have to tell the story in his own words. It doesn't matter  
to him what version of the events Spike heard.  
  
"You don't want to talk about it."  
  
Wesley gives a bark of laughter. "That would be the understatement of  
the century." He swallows, and tilts his head slightly so that it rests  
against Spike's, closing his eyes and letting the utter stillness of  
the vampire wash over him. "Do you believe in predestination?" he asks  
finally.  
  
Spike's voice is a low and strangely comforting growl near his ear.  
"Fate, you mean?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No. All those prophecies and everything, they don't mean anything.  
Just some people's way of, you know, trying to make sense of what happens."  
  
Wesley sighs. "So you wouldn't have done it."  
  
Spike's hand strokes little circles on Wesley's hip, underneath the  
heavy layer of leather that's draped over him. "Would I have taken Angel's  
son? No, safe to say I wouldn't have. But not because of the fate thing."  
  
"Because you hate him."  
  
"And you did it because you love him," Spike says, in a tone of voice  
that says he understands but doesn't agree.  
  
"No," Wesley says, even though the actual answer might be yes. It's  
so complicated that there would be layers of words on top of layers,  
and in the end it just becomes a jumble. In the end, he's ended up right  
where --  
  
It's too much. Abruptly, Wesley moves away from Spike and stands up,  
teetering on the edge of the ledge for just a split second before stepping  
down onto the roof proper.  
  
"I'm going to bed," he says. It's not an invitation, not exactly. He  
tells himself he doesn't care if Spike comes with him or not.  
  
Five minutes later, feeling Spike's smooth skin against his own, Wesley  
realizes that he's become more adept at lying than he would have thought  
possible, even to himself.  
  
It's the first time that they've been together that Spike hasn't spent  
a great deal of time worrying at Wes' throat with lips and teeth, but  
he must think that the scar tissue's too fresh. Must hear it in Wes'  
voice. It's the first time that the sex isn't frantic and hard and fast,  
as if someone's set a time limit and they musn't chance running over.  
  
Spike's cock is as hard as the rest of his body, honed and sharp-cut  
like stone. It slides across Wesley's skin, bumping against his own  
aching erection, driving him to distraction even though for once Spike  
seems to have all the time in the world.  
  
"Would you just fuck me already?" Wesley says.  
  
"Shh," Spike tells him. The kissing is languid, liquid. "What's your  
hurry?"  
  
And of course Wesley just wants to come -- he doesn't want to muck about  
with feelings and gentleness. He wants Spike to fuck him, hard, to drive  
all of the anger and pain back. He wants Spike to help him maintain  
the facade, the mask that lets him continue to function.  
  
Spike slides down, licks the head of Wes' cock, circling it again and  
again until Wesley thinks that he really might not survive this encounter.  
His thigh muscles are trembling uncontrollably and his arm is thrown  
up over his face, hiding his eyes. He wants to come and he wants Spike  
to fuck him and damn it all, there's just no end to the things he wants.  
Which only brings the point home more forcefully that he does still  
care, no matter how much he might wish he didn't.  
  
Wes finds his leg being shoved outward, bent at the knee, his thigh  
at a right angle to his body, and then Spike's tongue moves lower, back  
behind his balls, and pushes wetly inside of him. Wes groans and shivers,  
spreads his legs further apart. Lets Spike do what he will.  
  
Long minutes later, he's holding onto the headboard with both hands,  
his cock a stiff desperation against his stomach, his eyes closed. He  
can feel his orgasm waiting at the base of his spine, coiled, wanting  
the release that's being so casually teased from him.  
  
Spike rears up suddenly, the vampire's cool weight pressing Wesley down  
into the mattress, cock pushing into him like a force of nature that  
twists the rules more than it ought to. Wesley chokes back a groan as  
Spike fills him, but his hips tilt upward at the same time, forcing  
Spike's cock deeper. He wraps his legs around Spike's waist as they  
fuck, Wesley's arms outstretched, fingers digging into the mattress  
padding.  
  
He's holding back the noises he normally would have been making because  
he's afraid that any sound he makes might be incorrectly interpreted.  
  
Spike, on the other hand, doesn't have any reason to be quiet. He moans  
and thrusts and mutters things that make Wesley want to tell him to  
shut up. He doesn't deserve to be told that he's good and warm and amazing.  
They're all lies.  
  
When Spike takes Wes' hand and folds it around his own cock, Wesley  
lets him. None of this is about resistance, it's just that... well,  
he's so far away. Not far enough that he doesn't feel this, though,  
and his fingers tighten around his slick erection and pull the orgasm  
from it, as Spike's hips stutter and he comes too.  
  
The sound of Wesley's own breathing follows him into sleep.  
  
  


  
* * * * *  


_It's torture, slow and simple. Slow motion so absurdly slowed down_  
that he can feel each millimeter of his skin parting beneath the blade.  
It takes half an hour for his throat to be cut. He can feel the blood  
spurting, as if he could count each cell as it leaves his body. The  
pain is such a bright bloom that it eclipses everything else, and so  
it's easy to push it into the background and focus on everything else.

What he could have done differently.

Who he should have called, but didn't, because he didn't know what to  
say.

And through it all, the emptiness. The knowledge that he did everything  
he could have. That he made the right choice, and the end result was  
still wrong.

He's cold, and the dirt underneath his cheek is rough, and damp with  
his own blood. Every breath is torture, but he has to hold on. He's  
not going to die here, not without having a chance to explain, to keep  
them from hating him --

 

  
* * * * *  


And then Wesley is awake, gasping for air, and there are strong cool  
arms around him, holding him. Holding him together. Spike whispers soothing  
words in his ear, runs his hands up and down Wes' back.

"S'okay. Just a dream, you're all right."

But all right is the last thing Wesley is, and that's when he learns  
that sooner or later, everyone falls apart.

 

 

End

 


End file.
